


What Emhyr Did On His Vacation

by Amara1783



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-28 08:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amara1783/pseuds/Amara1783
Summary: Emhyr gets magically transported to the middle of Velen, where Geralt is. He needs Geralt's help to get his throne back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this as a WIP in draft form as I think that will help me finish it. We shall see >.<
> 
> If you don't like WIPs please don't read - otherwise welcome and I would love any and all feedback/thoughts.
> 
> Also I have read part of one of the books and lots of fic (reading Astolat's fic is the reason I am even in this fandom, and also the reason I am playing video games for the first time in decades), and have played part of the way through the game. In other words playing fast and loose with canon. Set after 'The Wild Hunt' storyline, before the expansions.

Roach, used to magic and not impressed by it, stopped suddenly, her ears pinned back. Geralt felt her tension, and steadied her as the fey light of the portal washed over them. Of all the things he had expected to encounter on the stretch of crevassed mud that passed for a road in Velen on this early autumn afternoon, the sudden appearance of Emhyr var Emreis was not one of them.

The magical signature dissipated, and Emhyr noticed him.

"Your Imperial Majesty," greeted Geralt, pointedly not bowing.

"Witcher," replied Emhyr. They stared at each other; Emhyr as lost for words as Geralt had ever seen him. The Emperor of Nilfgaard was not dressed for travel, or even for the outdoors. The fine clothing he wore was suited to court, and it was evident he felt the wind's chill. Geralt's Witcher senses picked up his almost imperceptible hunching against the autumn breeze.

"Witcher, I find myself in need of your services. I require your escort to Nilfgaard."

Geralt considered him, his expression laconic, reserved but with a touch of amusement.

Emhyr swallowed. "I guarantee you a rich purse at journey's end, or whatever else the Emperor of Nilfgaard can offer as reward."

Geralt merely sat his mare, leaning forward in the saddle and looking down at the Emperor of half the world. The silence dragged.

"How does the Emperor of Nilfgaard come to appear on this road?" Geralt asked eventually.

"Believe me, Witcher, that I will discover the answer to that when I return. For now, be assured that it must have been convoluted and required both magical and non-magical intervention, as well as a great deal of secrecy and synchronisation. Whoever my foes, I have lost this round; I ask for your assistance in winning the next."

Emhyr resisted the temptation to speak, to offer more, to argue his case. The instincts that had served him well all his life told him to wait and let the Witcher decide, that pressing his case further would only harm it.

Geralt smiled enigmatically. "It's an uncertain endeavour, returning an emperor to his throne. Much risk for no certain payment."

"I do have an impeccable success rate," said Emhyr, the corner of his lip twitching.

"But also a certain carelessness about keeping your throne. Most rulers I know do not find this to be an issue."

"Do not toy with me, Witcher; if you will not aid me say so plainly," snapped Emhyr. And then, more moderately, "If there is anything that I can offer you now by way of down payment, it is yours."

Geralt's smile widened in genuine amusement, and he looked Emhyr up and down in a way that would not easily be mistaken.

Emhyr did not mistake it.

"Very well," said Emhyr with clipped resignation, and started unbuttoning his fancy and extremely impractical court doublet. "How would you have me?"

Geralt looked startled and nonplussed - evidently Emhyr's ready acquiescence had not been expected. Emhyr waited to see what form his debasement - for how could it be otherwise? - would take.

Instead Geralt swung down from his horse, and caught Emhyr's hands to stop his undressing. "I will help you because of the threat to peace and the instability your deposement represents. If nothing else, your enemies are idiots - what do they mean by leaving you alive?"

Emhyr considered for a moment. "I suspect the spell they used was one to set me vulnerable in the path of an enemy - it is a particularly ancient and powerful form of magic, and something that can be used from a great distance. I am not without magical protection. To break through they would have had to have shown a great deal of creativity."

"Why would that have sent you to me?" asked Geralt.

"You are likely my single most powerful enemy in your own person, and magic tends to the literal. My most mortal enemies are not in their own person individually powerful - they are rulers who command power. Whereas a Witcher is one of the most lethal creatures of our world."

"Yet you are not afraid," stated Geralt, and Emhyr thought he was probably able to smell that on him.

Emhyr had to repress genuine amusement. "I have an... odd relationship to fear. I was terrified for so long, and then I simply wasn't anymore, as though I had used up a lifetime's supply in a few weeks." He shrugged. "I do not mean to impugn your lethalness."

Geralt grinned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now - I have more written just need to get it tidied up so as to be comprehensible to people who are not me >.<


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading/leaving kudos/commenting. You are all awesome :D I am busy writing more. :D
> 
> CW: see note at end

And then undid the clasp of his thick fur cloak, and in one precise movement removed it and settled it around Emhyr's shoulders. The cloak was warm from Geralt's body, and it blocked the wind which had been cutting through his court finery.

Geralt had turned to rummage in his saddlebags, and Emhyr allowed himself to relax and appreciate not having to brace himself against the chill breeze.

After some moments Geralt evidently found what he had been looking for, as he handed Emhyr a plain shirt of thick homespun and a pair of rough workman's trousers trimmed with cowhide. "These will be warmer and less fragile than your black silk, trimmed with black, with black velvet swirls."

Emhyr did not dignify the sartorial commentary with any more reply than a raised eyebrow, but he took the clothing and changed into it, regretting the need to take off the cloak as he did so. The shirt was redolent of leather from its time at the bottom of the saddlebags, and far rougher than his skin was used to, but it was warmer, and it fit passably enough.

Geralt turned back to his horse while Emhyr changed, giving him a modicum of privacy. That was a suprise; tact was not a word Emhyr would have associated with the Witcher.

He was handed a worn, malodorous sheepskin. 

"It's not vermin-ridden,"Geralt told him as he studied it, and Emhyr wondered for a brief moment whether Witchers could read minds before dismissing that as idle fancy. It would not be hard for Geralt to guess what he must be thinking, or to notice that Emhyr had been looking for signs of movement in the pile of the vest.

"Witchers kill monsters for a living, we're trained as Alchemists. We can certainly manage fleas, lice and creepy crawlies - despite the opinion of your chamberlain," said Geralt.

Geralt reached out for Emhyr's court clothes and he handed them over, watching as they were tucked away in the saddlebags. His skin itched from the rough fabric. Half of him was appalled at himself for having become so soft as to notice; the other half was appalled that he was in this situation at all. He pushed away both trains of thought as unproductive.

"It's Velen - we're never far from some form of water, and that means drowners and water-hags. If any get past me, hit them with this," Geralt said, matter-of-fact, handing Emhyr a mace. Its haft was smooth and solid, its weight comforting. Emhyr hoped he did not have occasion to use it on creatures that managed to evade Geralt.

"Roach won't carry both of us - we can take turns. You first, Your Imperial Majesty - my legs could do with a stretch, and those shoes weren't made for tramping the wilds."

Geralt always managed to imbue his title with a note of insult, but so far as Emhyr could tell, right now there was no derision. Only a complete and deliberate lack of the deference and respect that Emhyr was accustomed to.

"What are you doing in this part of the world, Witcher, so far in the middle of nowhere?" asked Emhyr unhurriedly. It was, he noted, typical of the Witcher that he be inconveniently located for Emhyr's purposes.

Geralt shot him an amused look. "It is your Imperial Majesty's own fault. You decreed that a sizeable bounty was to be paid for monster trophies when presented at any Nilfgaardian outpost, and Velen is full of monsters and therefore scarce of people."

"How scarce of people?" asked Emhyr.

"Two days to the nearest village, but I doubt they have a horse, let alone a spare one. Maybe a week to the nearest town with something we can get for you to ride.

Emhyr mounted. He did not often have inclination to ride, but his body remembered the way of it, and the mare seemed sensible enough.

Geralt walked along beside him. There did not seem much point in talking. Emhyr would simply have to trust that Geralt was indeed taking him back to civilisation. A sense of vulnerability swept over Emhyr, and he pushed it away ruthlessly. He made himself focus on the way the soft autumn light played through the golden leaves, and the smell of earth and loam, and the feel of a steady horse under him. The afternoon was beautiful, and if he had had a turn for poetry he would no doubt have found it inspiring.

What he had told Geralt earlier about how he had come to be here was accurate. It was the only spell he could think of that might have the power to do this, and as someone who had been cursed at the age of 13 to be a were-hedgehog he had taken more of an interest in magic than most non-mages. How this had happened, however, was a technical point of interest for another time. What mattered now was getting back on his throne, and part of that was figuring out who was responsible.

His conquest of the North had left him with enemies both in the North and Nilfgaard. Radovid could not be ruled out - he would make an exception for using magic himself even as he burned others for doing so. Some of the leaders of the trade guilds certainly held grudges - whether that was enough to inspire them to hire a mage capable of this type of advanced magic. And there were personal grudges amongst his nobles - some of whom might even have the resources.

Emhyr came to the conclusion that he did not have enough information to rule out any of his enemies. Even Skellige - he tried to remember his latest information on mages on Skellige, before temporarily abandoning the effort in disgust. He felt keenly the lack of his study, and the comforting familiarity of his books.

And, of course, the ability to command any information he wished.

The light was just starting to take on the golden hue of evening when Geralt found them a campsite - the lee of a rocky outcrop several hundred yards off the alleged road.

Within a short span of time and with only the briefest exchange of words Geralt had untacked Roach, found dry kindling - likely with help of his Witcher senses - built a fire, and disappeared briefly into the undergrowth before emerging with a brace of rabbits.

Emhyr sat on an old hide Geralt had put down, still wrapped in Geralt's cloak, trying not to let his uselessness and out-of-his-depthness get to him.

The meat cooked quickly on a spit over the fire, and Geralt produced salt and waybread to make it a meal.

After dinner they lay down between the fire and the rock face, that was by this time reflecting a certain amount of the fire's warmth. Emhyr was sore even from the few scant hours in the saddle, and tired, and he could feel every pebble and twig digging into him through the makeshift bedroll Geralt had assembled for him.

He tried to still his mind for sleep, but unlike his body his mind was not tired, and would not settle. In Nilfgaard he would simply have kept working, or else diverted himself with a book, or sought out companionship for the evening, or had one of his healers prepare a soporific draught. Here in the wilds of Velen, though, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts.

He noticed himself shaking, though he was not palpably cold. He made an effort to still himself, not wanting the Witcher to notice, and then, horribly, found that he could not. The more he tried the worse it seemed to get, and his breath came faster and faster and yet he was unable to fill his lungs. There seemed to be a knife wedged in his throat. He felt himself break out in sweat, and the cold night air seemed to seep into him, chilling him, making the shaking worse, sinking to the bone, and all the while a low voice in his head told him to stop it, that at any moment Geralt, with his Witcher senses, would notice - notice and mock him and withdraw both his aid and his protection, and any of the innumerable monsters that inhabited Velen would find him and eat him, and that would be the ignominious end of Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd.

The shaking got worse, as did the feeling of not being able to catch his breath. He told himself sternly that this was not behaviour worthy of an Emperor of Nilfgaard, nor of a son of House Emreis, and that he had a plan, and was following it. And that he had done all he could, for the moment, and that this part of the plan required sleep.

The frustration of his body betraying him was overwhelming. He tried to focus on his breathing, to at least regulate that one thing, even though he could not still the shaking, but trying to force his breath slower made his throat close up even more around the knife he knew was not there but that he could still feel.

Behind him he heard Geralt stir, and dread crept over him. But Geralt simply went to tend the fire, sending sparks flying up into the air. He returned without so much as glancing at Emhyr. And then he heard Geralt move his bedroll, and lie down, his back against Emhyr's. The warmth of him slowly soaked into Emhyr, and after a time the comfort of another person seemed to ease the shaking.

He came back to himself sluggishly, his breath returning to normal, the sweat drying, the knife in his throat growing smaller.

Geralt knew of his weakness.

Geralt knew, and had not mocked him. Had instead aided him without mentioning it, let alone demanding a price for his aid.

That was unusual.

It was possible, likely even, that Geralt was such a yokel that he did not know the way of things, that help was best negotiated and acknowledged at the time, for both parties to recognise the debt so that it could be traded on later.

He was still puzzling at this as he slipped into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: description of panic attack

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/thoughts/concrit very welcome :D


End file.
